The Assassination of Potentate Ocato
by joshw1066
Summary: 10 years after the oblivion crisis, an ordinary dunmer finds himself wrapped up in a plot to assassinate the leader of the Empire.
1. Chapter 1

_Middas, 9_ _th_ _of First Seed, 4E 10_

"I don't believe you heard me," the man said tensely as he rubbed his palms together in agitation. "I ordered twenty-six crates of Colovian brandy, and that… _fool_ of a merchant sent me twenty-four!" His fat fingers clenched into a fist and slammed hard on the desk. "I demand retribution!"

Tedryn Thalor sighed in frustration and slid a form across the desk. "As I have already explained to you, sera, you can record your complaint on this form and I'll pass it along to the appropriate officials"

"And my missing brandy?"

"Go to the temple and pray to Zenithar, I'm sure he'll take care of everything"

The man snorted with contempt, stood up, and slid the form back across the desk. "One way or another, I'll have my brandy," he said indignantly before turning his back and beginning to exit the office.

"S'wit"

"What?"

"I said 'have a pleasant evening', sera"

The door shut with a thud. Tedryn yawned loudly and looked around at the now quiet Office of Imperial Commerce. His simple wooden desk was cluttered with all manner of documents, quills, inkpots, and other unorganised clutter. Large Nibenese tapestries hung on the walls, and orange flowers from the Blackwood forest bloomed in a pot behind him. In truth, the office was somewhat small for the scale of work performed within it, and the byzantine filing system preferred in all bureaucratic institutions of the Empire was evidently ignored by the employees of that particular office, who were prone to leaving files on Breton wine merchants in the folders of Khajiiti caravan bosses, and confusing East Empire fishing charters with manuals on the production of cheap pottery.

As grateful as he was to have been granted the position of _Second Assistant Clerk of Commercial Imports and Exports (Skyrim and Morrowind)_ , Tedryn was bored. Not the kind of boredom one feels when they've nothing to do on a lazy Sundas afternoon; no, this was a deep, infectious boredom that spread through every bone in his body and seeped into his soul. It was an unshakable urge for something _more_ from his life than his current mundane existence. All his life, stories of heroes like Indoril Nerevar, Sotha Sil, Saint Jiub and the Nerevarine had inspired him to be something great, to be a hero of the people and become an inspiration himself. Yet there he was, one hundred and twenty-two years old and working a mediocre job for mediocre pay, living a totally inconsequential life.

'What could I do anyway?' he often thought to himself whenever his current state brought on a depression. 'Those great heroes of history were surely chosen by divine favour. Heroes are destined, not made.'

As the sun began to set over the Imperial City, Tedryn finished writing the last of half a dozen letters to various lumber mill operators across eastern Skyrim, politely requesting their most recent export figures for tax purposes. He sighed, wiped dry his quill, then collected his coat and left the office. From his pocket he pulled a keyring, and used a large bronze key to lock the door. It was raining lightly now, and he walked with quickened pace through the market district. The plethora of shops and stalls had astounded him when he first arrived from Balmora, which he had taken to be a great city in its own right. But nothing he had ever seen could compare to the awe and splendour of the Imperial City, with its ornate marble buildings, enormous statues and seemingly endless bustle of people. The city was thousands of years old, and Tedryn often marvelled at the craftsmanship of the ancient Ayleids, their architecture in the first era far surpassing that of any civilisation since.

Of course, the damage wrought by the oblivion crisis ten years earlier was not invisible. Though not as obvious as in the temple district, many buildings in the market district had suffered damage to their exteriors. The ensuing chaos caused by the absence of an emperor on the ruby throne, the Red Year, and the secession of Morrowind, Elsweyr and Black Marsh from the Empire had led to a period of deep economic recession in recent years. Many of the stores Tedryn now passed were boarded up, their proprietors no longer able to afford to keep them open. Beggars lined the streets, desperately pleading for a few septims from anyone passing even remotely near them. In the shadows, it was rumoured, a guild of thieves had become increasingly successful, and anyone with wealth was now hiring guards to protect their homes.

Despite these troubled times, Tedryn was fortunate. He had fled Vvardenfell with nothing but the clothes on his back, and now held a respectable government position in the greatest city in Tamriel, even being lucky enough to own his own property, albeit in the waterfront district. He often felt deeply guilty about his own dissatisfaction with his life, knowing there were dunmer on Vvardenfell who would give anything to be where he was. Despite it all, it just wasn't enough for him. He'd gladly give up his job, his house and his meagre wealth for just a moment of fame and glory. He'd give it all just to have his name on the front page of the Black Horse Courier for having rescued a count's daughter from a band of orcs, or slain a gruesome minotaur with his bare hands. Anything, so long as it brought him adventure and grandeur.

He was disrupted from his daydream by the sound of chatter and celebration and the strong smell of ale and roast beef coming from a nearby tavern. He weighed his coin purse in his hand, and feeling it had some heft to it, decided he could afford to have a meal and a couple of drinks.

The warmth of a hearth washed over him immediately as he entered the cosy but spacious room. The ceiling was very high, though this was not unusual in the Imperial City, and the floor was filled with tables and benches. On the other side of the room, facing the door, was the serving counter. An unshaven bartender rested against it on his elbows; on the wall behind him were racks containing various cheap wines and meads, most of them imported though some were locally produced. At the table closest to the door sat four burly nords, drinking merrily and revelling in something which was not immediately apparent to Tedryn, who had only just arrived. At a small table in a corner to the side of the bar, two bosmer were drinking and talking quietly, the two of them clearly engaged in deep discussion. At a table near them, a lone man drunk from a bottle of mead and muttered to himself, evidently quite drunk.

Tedryn walked up to the bar and took a seat. The bartender looked at him indifferently and sniffed.

"What can I get you?"

"Do you serve sujamma?"

"Do I serve _what_?"

"Never mind. A mug of ale and a plate of roast beef, please"

The bartender whistled loudly, and a moment later a young serving girl appeared from behind a closed door. She wore an apron stained from carving meat and had her hair tied neatly behind her head.

"Vittoria, a plate of roast beef for the gentleman here"

She nodded obediently and disappeared once more behind the door. The bartender cleared his throat and took an already opened bottle of ale from the shelf behind him. He pulled a silver mug from under the counter and filled it three quarters of the way full, before sliding it towards Tedryn. At this point the drunken man, having apparently finished his drink, rose and stumbled over to the bar, tripping over a chair on the way.

"Give me another drink, barkeep", he slurred rudely. Though his speech was affected by the alcohol, Tedryn could still make out his Colovian accent, possibly from Chorrol or Skingrad. He'd always had an ear for accents.

"I'll give you another drink when you pay up your tab, you filthy drunk. You owe me 15 septims!"

The colovian snarled, and then looked at Tedryn.

"Hello there, my grey-skinned brother," the colovian began, but Tedryn just shook his head firmly and the colovian growled and stumbled back to his table. The serving girl returned carrying a plate of roast beef and placed it before Tedryn.

"Six septims", the bartender said impatiently, still agitated from his recent argument. He quickly paid up and eagerly began his meal, pausing intermittently to drink from his mug.

The two bosmer in the corner were by now quite drunk also, and had begun to talk and laugh much louder.

"I'll bet mine is at least two inches bigger than yours!" exclaimed the taller one, taking a swig from his tankard.

"It's not the size, my friend, it's the way you use it! Still, I'd be willing to bet on that," replied the shorter.

"Ha! Show it to me right now then"

The shorter elf snapped his fingers, and a tall orange flame ignited at the tip of his index finger. The other looked rather bemused, and did the same, though his was not as big. Their fun was interrupted by two large hands slamming down on their table.

"Get that… _evil_ away from here!" cried the colovian, visibly upset at their showmanship.

"Leave us alone, you drunken fool," the taller elf said in annoyance.

"Do you know what that accursed power has done to this world? Did you not see Hell itself open up and destroy everything?"

"We're making six inch flames, not opening a portal to Oblivion," the taller one laughed. The colovian grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled his face close to his.

"I was in Kvatch when the daedra appeared. I watched the city burn to nothing! I watched them kill my family!" he screamed into his face, tears running down his cheeks. The atmosphere was no longer merry. The room had gone completely silent as all watched on in awe at the scene taking place.

"Get your hands off me," the elf said quietly but sternly. "I won't ask again"

The colovian breathed heavily as the tears ran off his face. He stared into the elf's eyes for a few moments as his expression went from desperation to pure rage. He screamed and threw the elf's tiny body onto the table with such force that it broke in half. The shorter bosmer reacted instantly, conjuring a ball of fire in his hands and firing it into the colovian's rugged face. He screamed in pain, his entire head engulfed in flames, as the shorter bosmer quietly collected his friend and the two left the tavern with haste. The serving girl had fetched a pale of water and dunked it over the burning head, but it was too late. The screaming had stopped, and the charred remains of the colovian's face were forever frozen in an expression of unimaginable pain and terror.


	2. Chapter 2

For a few moments after the scene had unfolded, the whole tavern was frozen in shock. Then, all hell broke loose.

The serving girl began to weep uncontrollably as she kneeled over the colovian's charred corpse. The reveling nords had long since ceased their merriment and were shouting angrily at each other to make some kind of action, though none were quite sure what to do. The smell of burned flesh and the sight of a charred body was clearly too much for the bartender, who began heaving his guts into a bucket in the corner.

Tedryn himself could do nothing but sit and stare at the horrible sight in front of him, too shocked to even react. A member of the Imperial Watch, having heard the commotion from nearby, burst into the tavern brandishing his sword. He stopped when he saw the body, and his eyes widened in horror before turning to anger.

"What in _oblivion_ has happened here? Who is responsible?"

When nobody answered immediately, he became even angrier.

"Answer me!", he yelled, and pointed his sword at one of the nords.

"An elf…he killed him", he stammered, his body shaking slightly. The soldier glanced around the room and set his gaze upon Tedryn, still seated at the bar. "No, not that kind. The short ones", the nord added, sensing his thoughts.

"Where is he now?"

"There were two of them, they ran off"

The soldier sighed, sheathed his sword and removed his helmet, placing it on an empty table.

"Alright," he began defeatedly. "I'm going to need to take a statement from everyone present"

It was much later in the evening before Tedryn was permitted to go home. It was a curiously warm night, but a cool breeze from the west made it rather comfortable. As he walked hastily through the eerily dark streets, his mind thought back to the events of the evening. What could drive someone to kill so callously? He remembered the way the bosmer looked after he had set the man ablaze. His expression was not one of horror or guilt, as one would expect from a creature of empathy and compassion, but rather one of cold-hearted indifference. It was as if the killing meant absolutely nothing to him; as if it was little more than a minor inconvenience.

As he entered the waterfront district, and his mind played the scene over and over, his fist began to clench and his heart filled with rage. Who were they to decide the fate of someone's life? Did they dare consider themselves masters of destiny, puppeteers of fate? Of course each man, mer and beast decides his own fate to some extent, but their lives are ultimately in the hands of the gods, not of each other. To take another life is not merely abhorrent, it is blasphemy at its heart.

His mind was so distracted by these thoughts that he almost failed to notice two small silhouettes sneaking hurriedly between some buildings to his left. He slowed his pace, and sure enough, heard muffled footsteps drifting off down an alleyway.

Now, Tedryn was by no means a courageous dunmer. His heart yearned for fame and adventure, but most days he was about as brave as a rat in a goblin den. On this particular day however, all of his pent up anger and rage led to him making what was arguably one of the worst decisions of his life.

He moved quickly but quietly down the alley, taking care not to step on any sticks or pieces of glass, as he followed the sound of the footsteps ahead of him. Momentarily he would catch brief glimpses of the figures when partings in the buildings allowed for trickles of moonlight to break through the darkness, but this was not enough for him to determine whether they were the two he suspected.

After some time, the two figures turned a blind corner, and Tedryn waited briefly before following. A moment later they stopped, and he quickly ducked behind a large pile of nets, barrels and other fishing equipment. He didn't dare peak out from behind his cover, but heard what sounded like three knocks on a wooden door followed by the sound of it slowly creaking open.

"You're late", a male voice said in what was clearly an altmeri accent.

"We were… delayed", came the reply. Tedryn recognized it as the voice of the shorter one, the bosmer who had killed the colovian.

"Come inside, quickly", said the altmer and the door closed quietly after the two had stepped in.

Now, Tedryn was intrigued. Why was this altmer meeting with two bosmer murderers in the middle of the night? His mind raced nearly as fast as his heart, but he took a deep breath and calmed himself. Slowly, he peaked out from behind his makeshift cover, and confident that he was out of sight, he creeped up to the door and placed his ear to it.

"Would any of you gentlemen like something to eat?" It was the altmer, his voice heavily muffled behind the door but still faintly audible.

"No, thank you…already…beef…had a…on…grandfather…not sure…", it was the taller bosmer, but he spoke so faintly that Tedryn could hardly make out any of what he was saying. Something else was said, and all three elves laughed.

"So," began the altmer, "tell me about your 'delay', if you will". Again the reply was inaudible, but it was followed by a long pause.

"You know this is inexcusable, Fillin. And you, Abros, will be reprimanded especially". Once again an inaudible reply, but the tone was quite nervous.

"Follow me downstairs, gentlemen". There was the sound of an interior door opening, then closing, and then total silence. Tedryn sighed, but he wasn't ready to give up just yet. Whether bravely or stupidly, he was now driven by primal intrigue. 'Curiosity killed the khajiit' was not a well-known phrase back home.

He quietly followed the perimeter of the small wooden shack around until he came across what he was looking for. A cellar door, unlocked, stuck up out of the earth ever-so invitingly. Very, very slowly, he inched open the door so as not to make a sound and peeked inside. A ladder led down to a spacious basement, the part of which he could see was cluttered with crates and boxes. For now, it seemed, the room was empty. For gods-know what reason, he took a deep breath, looked behind him once more, and slowly descended the ladder into the cellar, closing the door behind him.

The basement smelled heavily of mold and mildew, and Tedryn wondered whether he might contract some kind of illness just by breathing the air down there. Looking around as he descended the ladder, he noticed that the side of the room opposite the crates and boxes was extremely strange. The walls were decorated by strange black banners with golden trims, the likes of which he had never seen before, and a large banner in the center of the wall read: _Udhendras Tamrielae_. The most bizarre feature of all was the huge stone pillar, surrounded by red candles and adorned with nightshade petals and what appeared to be dried blood. He positioned himself behind one of the larger crates, and not a moment too soon, as the three elves descended the stairs in silence.

The elves stood around the stone pillar without saying a word for quite some time, before the altmer finally spoke.

"Your failure cannot be tolerated, Abros"

"I understand, sir, but please-"

"Silence. The plan will not be successful if you bring attention to us and our cause. Our prince can only aid us as long as we show competence", the altmer said calmly but sternly. As he turned around and began to pace in Tedryn's direction, the dunmer quickly ducked back behind the crate and silently prayed he hadn't been seen. When the altmer turned and slowly paced back in the opposite direction, it seemed his prayers had been answered.

"There is only one possible recourse. In order to see the plan brought to fulfillment, we must appease our prince". The altmer drew a knife from under his belt.

"No, Mithril, wait", Abros pleaded as the altmer grabbed him by his shirt and forced him up against the stone pillar.

"Prince of plots, deceiver of nations, queen of shadows! I call upon you, Lord Boethiah, to bear witness to this honourable sacrifice in your name!"

Abros cried and silently begged for mercy, but this was apparently in vain. Mithril raised his knife to the sky, and then slit the wood elf open from ribcage to waist, his intestines among other organs spilling to the ground before his limp body fell upon them. Fillin stared unmoving upon his dead comrade, afraid even to blink for fear of what fate might befall him.

Mithril wiped clean his knife on the stone altar and turned to face the other bosmer.

"Mourn not your fallen friend, Fillin, but revel in the glory of the age to come! We are close to realizing the plan, and soon the day will dawn when all of Tamriel once again bows to elvenkind!"

Tedryn had been able to observe all of this owing to an advantageous position, and could barely contain a gasp when Mithril had gutted the poor bosmer like a fish. He may have been a cold-hearted murderer, but nobody deserved the fate he had just witnessed.

"Come now, Fillin, there are many preparations yet to be made", Mithril exclaimed with a touch of glee. Tedryn waited for the two to ascend the stairs and close the door before he let out a heavy sigh. He glanced over to Abros' dead body but could hardly bare to look at it without feeling sick. Wondering what on Nirn he had gotten himself into, he climbed back up the ladder with every intention to go home and try to forget the incident entirely. Tomorrow he would go to work like normal, as if the whole thing had never happened. Indeed, it seems plausible that that is exactly what would have happened, had everything gone according to plan. But once he had climbed the ladder and opened the cellar door, he encountered something he had dearly prayed he wouldn't.

"Hello, friend", Mithril grinned menacingly. "Enjoy the show?"

Thanks for reading chapter 2, I hope you enjoyed it as much as the first. Apologies for such a late update, I have been overseas, but I'm definitely looking forward to writing a third chapter for everyone if you liked this one! Just leave me a review and tell me what you think :)


	3. Chapter 3

"Auran, dunmer. Asma delle tye shauta sino?"

Tedryn looked blankly at the golden-skinned altmer sitting across from him. The smell of fine soaps and incense wafted from his slender figure, dressed in an expensive silk shirt and breeches. His clean shaven face bore no scars or blemishes of any kind, though his whole appearance was almost feminine in its features.

"I should not be surprised at your failure to understand the tongue of your ancestors. The dunmer are, after all, a race of degenerates"

Tedryn yanked on the ropes binding his hands to the back of the chair, but they only cut deeper into his flesh. He quickly glanced around the basement- the cellar doors were closed and presumably locked from the outside, as was the door at the top of the stairs that led into the main house. The disemboweled corpse of poor Abros still lay unmoving at the foot of the stone altar only a few feet in front of him, and Fillin leaned silently against the wall, staring at the floor.

"Your kind were once like ours, you know", said Mithril as he leaned into arm's reach of Tedryn's face. "But the chimer abandoned our ancient traditions, and followed a false prophet down the path of destruction". Mithril rose from his seat and began to slowly pace around the room.

"Now look what you have become… dark-skinned filth, better belonging with pigs than amongst the higher races of mer", he spat hatefully and drew his knife. The steel blade gleamed spectacularly in the candlelight, and the ivory hilt encrusted with emeralds was even more beautiful in that dim glow. He admired it as he paced over to Tedryn and stood directly behind him. The dunmer's gorgeous ruby eyes were wide open and his heart beat like an orcish war drum in his chest as he felt the cold steel of the elven dagger being traced up and down his neck. Slowly, Mithril would drag the blade from the base of his spine, without piercing the skin, up his neck, grazing those tiny hairs that stood on end. At the top of the neck he would hold it there for a few moments before doing the same on the way down.

"Tell me, dunmer, how was the Elder Council able to catch wind of our plan?"

"The Elder Council? No, you misunderstand…", Tedryn began, but wasn't sure how to continue. Fillin looked up and gazed at him inquisitively.

"You were in the tavern earlier… you followed us here?", Fillin asked, walking over to him.

"Ah, so our Imperial agent here has been following you for some time, Fillin", Mithril exclaimed, and began to press the dagger more firmly into his skin.

"No, listen, please- my name is Tedryn Thalor, of Balmora", he explained as he tried to turn his head, but he felt the sharp steel being pressed even harder against his neck.

"And for whom do you work, Tedryn Thalor of Balmora?" asked Mithril, bending down so as to speak directly into his ear. The sensation of his warm breath down his neck made Tedryn shudder.

"I'm but a clerk, at the Office of Imperial Commerce", he croaked, his nerves affecting his ability to speak.

Mithril relieved the pressure on Tedryn's neck and for a long while there was a pause. And then came a sound so utterly horrifying that Tedryn could not restrain himself from cringing in fear. Mithril was laughing hysterically. It was a soul-piercing laugh, the terror it produced being too intense to put into words. For a creature so evil and far-removed from human empathy to emit an expression of joy and humour is enough to chill even the hardiest of people to the bone. It was almost an inhuman mimicry of human emotion, and Tedryn would have nightmares about that sound for the rest of his life.

At some time, long overdue, the laughter ceased and Mithril gave Tedryn a firm pat on the shoulder, causing him to shudder. He walked around to face him and sat back down in the chair opposite.

"So," he began, still smiling eerily, "it seems you've gotten yourself into a lot more than you bargained for, desk clerk". Tedryn refused to raise his glance to meet his. "It really is a shame, you know", the altmer said as he stood up and began to walk towards the stairs. "You could have lived to see the coming age; the fulfillment of the elven destiny", he called out as he ascended the stone staircase. "Instead you will spend the rest of eternity burning in the hellfire of our prince's kingdom". As he reached the door to the main house, he spoke once more, "I have some other matters to attend. Make our friend feel at home, won't you Fillin?". And with that, he left the basement and was gone.

For a long time after Mithril left, nothing was said. Tedryn's mind was too busy racing to figure a way out. Even if he could somehow get his binds off and make a run for the door, Fillin was still keeping a close eye on him, and he didn't dare wish to test whether his magical abilities matched those of his partner. Although… he noticed the hilt of a dagger sticking out from under his belt. Maybe if he could get him to come close he could-

"Abros was my dearest friend", the bosmer said solemnly, interrupting Tedryn's thoughts. Fillin continued to stare at the ground as he spoke. "As children in Valenwood, we used to go fishing together with our fathers every Sundas. Then we'd play make-believe by the riverbank until sunset". Tedryn looked up at him suspiciously but didn't say anything yet. No doubt he was upset over the loss of his friend, but was there a touch of resentment towards his killer?

"When we first met Mithril in Woodhearth, Abros was enchanted. I was merely intrigued, but he clung to every word out of that altmer's mouth. He pledged his life to our cause, and now…" he looked over to his friend's pale corpse, its entrails spilled out onto the ground beneath it. Fillin sighed and looked at Tedryn. Unlike his superior, the bosmer's face was rugged, weathered and manly. His eyes were a peaceful shade of green, like beech leaves in the summertime, and they looked at Tedryn not with anger or grief, but with guilt. Tedryn finally mustered the stones to speak.

"How do you live with yourself?" he asked with faux courage. Fillin's brow furrowed and his lips became slightly pursed.

"Excuse me?"

"I asked you how you can bare to live with yourself. You're a murderer and a blasphemer, and our father Akatosh would be ashamed in you". Despite his firm speech, Tedryn was still terrified. Bound to a chair in the basement of a daedra worshipper, it would be difficult for anyone to muster the courage to speak to their captor so boldly. But Tedryn was a mer of strong convictions. Despite all his gains and losses throughout one hundred and twenty-two years of life, he had always kept his commitment to his principles and his faith in the Nine. Without those, he considered himself nothing.

Fillin looked away in shame. He ran his fingers through the shoulder-length brown hair that hung loosely from his head, and then quickly glanced at the corpse before returning his gaze to the floor.

"The first time Mithril made us kill… I didn't want to do it, but what could I do? He told us that by killing them we would prove our loyalty to the cause, but they were just farmers… so many horrible things I've done…" The bosmer began to tear up as he spoke, and not once did he look directly at Tedryn. "I know the Divines have no doubt forsaken me for my actions in this life. I can only hope for a swift death, and embrace whatever punishment awaits my soul in Oblivion". He cleared his throat and crossed his arms, going silent. Tedryn waited some time before speaking.

"I'm no priest, but I know that our Lady Mara teaches forgiveness, and Stendarr grants us mercy. The gods never forsake their mortal children, though it is our duty to seek them out ourselves. They guide us, when possible, but our choices are our own. You can give up now, a coward, and accept the sour fruits of previous sinful labours; or, you can take charge of your destiny, become a force for good in this world, and earn the favour of our creators. It's your choice", he spoke with both a clarity and a passion that surprised even himself.

He watched as Fillin pondered these thoughts, and observed his gaze slowly rising in recognition of something, though of what he couldn't be sure. His eyes met Tedryn's.

"If I leave, he'll kill me"

"Is it any worse a fate than staying?"

He was quiet for a moment, thinking, then stood up straight and adjusted the collar of his green felt shirt. He walked over to Tedryn determinedly, drew a knife, and cut the ropes binding him to his chair. Tedryn rubbed his sore wrists and looked at Fillin expectantly.

"We don't have much time to waste, Tedryn. He may be returning as we speak", the bosmer said as he grabbed Tedryn by the arm and pulled him out of the chair and up the stairs. "Wait a moment", he said in a hushed tone once they reached the door. He motioned his hand over the lock and a spiral of green energy poured from his fingertips and into the keyhole, unlocking the door with a loud click. Without saying anything, he motioned for Tedryn to follow him and the two entered the dilapidated kitchen of the home. They walked past the rotting wooden walls and over crumbling floorboards until they finally exited the front door and breathed the fresh open air of the night sky. Their eyes quickly scanned the empty street, before Fillin once again grabbed the other's arm and pulled him through a series of dark alleyways into which the moonlight could not penetrate. Eventually Tedryn's lungs gave out, and they stopped outside the door of a cobbler and sat down on the road.

"My home… is just a few… streets that way", Tedryn said between breaths and pointed to his left.

"You can't go home", replied Fillin, his athletic physique obviously allowing him to breathe much easier. "He knows your name and place of work, he'll find you"

Tedryn lay down on the ground, defeated. If he'd only kept on walking earlier that night, right now he could have been in bed dreaming of sweetrolls and burly nord women.

"So," he began, his breathing now steadier. "What can I do?"

Fillin thought for a moment before his face lit up.

"I do know a place we can go, but… how well can you act?"


	4. Chapter 4

_Loredas, 11_ _th_ _of Frostfall, 4E 09 (one year earlier)_

Ocato took another sip of his red wine and placed the silver chalice upon the oak table beside him. He rose from his high-back leather seat and walked over to the window overlooking the Imperial City. From viewpoints in the luxurious emperor's chamber of the White-Gold tower, Ocato could see not only the entire capital city stretching for miles beneath him; on a clear night such as this he could see all the way across Lake Rumare and to the Jerall Mountains in the north, the Colovian Highlands to the west, the Velothi Mountains to the east, and far into Elsweyr to the south. He stood in the very centre of the world, and that world was counting on him to keep it together.

He caught his own reflection in the glass and took a moment to study himself. The past nine years of leadership had not been kind to his mental nor physical wellbeing, and he noticed the first grey hairs had begun to sprout on his head. He had grown out his goatee in the last couple of years, believing it gave him some added dignity, and he maintained it as neatly as his short, oiled-back hair. On this evening he wore a traditional altmeri robe of green brocade with a large sapphire pendant around his neck and several jeweled rings on his fingers, enchanted with various magicks.

A quiet knock on the door stole his attention and he walked across the room to answer it. A veteran legionnaire stood in the doorway, adorned in the full golden-steel armour of the palace guards.

"My apologies, your eminence, but there's someone here who says he's supposed to be meeting you", he said with a bow.

"Relax, Hadrian, I'm not the emperor", he replied and smiled a little. "Send him in", he said and went back inside. Just as he reached his private bar, his visitor entered the room and the door closed softly behind him.

The first thing Ocato noticed about his guest was that he was a rather tall altmer, like himself. Unlike himself, however, this mer was very young, hardly more than 30 or 40 years old. His hair was a hazel brown and hung loosely past his ears, and his eyes were the same shade as his hair. His attire was not that of a poor elf, nor was he particularly unkempt, but he certainly wore neither the air nor the vestments of someone with wealth.

"It's a privilege to speak with you, sir, especially in your own home", he announced assuredly but not quite comfortably, looking around the lavishly decorated room. Everything in there, from the smallest candlestick to the largest sofa, was beautifully detailed and crafted from the finest materials in the Empire. Ocato was often amused by the irony that much of the same furniture used by Tiber Septim, conqueror of the known world and literal god, was now enjoyed by Ocato of Firsthold, begrudgingly elected potentate of a collapsing empire.

"Thank you, but please- enough with the formalities", he said politely as he took one of the silver chalices from a cupboard. "Do you take a drink?", he asked.

"I do enjoy a brandy, if it's no trouble", he replied courteously and stood uncomfortably, unsure exactly how to behave.

"Please, take a seat by the fire", he said, seemingly sensing his guest's discomfort. The mer nodded and did as he asked. Ocato poured his drink, then handed it over as he took a seat beside him on the leather sofa. He reached over for his wine and took another sip, then placed it on the table in front of him.

"Please excuse my arranging a meeting at this hour, but given the reason for our conference I thought it best to do so privately", Ocato said quietly, the crackling of the fire giving a certain ambience to his words.

"I understand of course, and I hope you know I very much appreciate you agreeing to see me at all, sir", came the reply. Ocato paused for a moment to sip his wine.

"I received your letters, of course, but ashamedly your name slips my memory"

"Oh, Potentate, you're humbly forgiven. I am Lathenil of Sunhold. I've lived in Cyrodiil for close to ten years now, however"

"Indeed, I remember now", he exclaimed before chuckling slightly. "I've lived in Cyrodiil for over a century and I'm still known as Ocato of Firsthold. You'll get used to it", he added with a wink. Lathenil smiled and drank some of his brandy.

"Your letters were vague and cryptic, but you kept referring to 'the threat close to our hearts'. Whatever did you mean?"

Lathenil's expression turned deadly serious and he looked over his shoulder with paranoia before he began to speak in a hushed whisper.

"It's the Thalmor, Potentate. They're a far greater threat than I believe you realise"

Ocato's face turned serious in response, and although he knew that nobody could be listening, he spoke in a whisper anyway.

"The Elder Council have assured me that the Thalmor threat is under control. I have one of my best chancellors seeing to it that they will never-"

"Excuse me, Potentate, but whatever is being done is not nearly enough", Lathenil interrupted. For a moment there was an awkward silence. "I'm sure you understand as well as I that they will stop at nothing in order to seize power in our beloved Summerset Isles. As we speak, they are no doubt garnering support from the altmer to abandon the Empire and restore the Aldmeri Dominion", he said with growing volume to match his passion.

"I'm hearing you, Lathenil, but I fail to see what else I can do. The Empire holds little-to-no influence in the Summerset Isles anymore, and the Legion is yet to fully recover which puts an invasion out of the question. Even if we were to mount an invasion, wouldn't the altmer only take that as a sign of aggression on our part, and incite them towards further rebellion?", Ocato replied as he began to become visibly worked up over his inability to take action. They both were quiet for a time, watching the flames dancing magically and listening to the soft crackling of burning wood, Lathenil worried that he had offended the Potentate and Ocato embarrassed for having lost his temper. When both had calmed down, Ocato stood up and walked over to the window, his hands behind his back.

"I suspect history will not be kind to me", said Ocato, watching over the Temple District. "I may very well be solely blamed for the downfall of the Septim Empire. And, indeed, perhaps I will deserve much of that blame. But I can't help seeing myself as a victim of ill-fate, fallen into a position that was never mine to hold"

"You didn't want to become Potentate?", asked Lathenil. Ocato chuckled and his breath fogged up the glass.

"Who would want to be captain of a sinking ship?"

Ocato turned around and his eyes met Lathenil's.

"I know you are right. A Third Dominion would put the last nail in the Empire's coffin, but there's nothing I can do. I'm sorry, friend", Ocato said solemnly, before walking over to the door and opening it for Lathenil. The young altmer begrudgingly rose and walked over to the door. Before leaving through it, he stopped, and looked at Ocato.

"You are right about one thing, Potentate. History will remember you as a coward. As a pathetic ruler, too afraid to act to save the Empire in its time of need", Lathenil said spitefully and began to exit, but the door slammed shut seemingly of its own will. Livid, Ocato grabbed Lathenil's shirt and pushed him to the floor. He clambered away on his hands and knees as Ocato approached, a fiery rage in his eyes. Suddenly the Potentate stopped, and realising what he had done, sat down ashamedly in his chair, his head in his hands.

"You frightened me for a moment there", Lathenil exclaimed as he stood up and came over to sit beside him. "I'm sorry for what I said, Potentate, it was out of line and I-"

"No, Lathenil, you were right", he interrupted, raising his head to look him in the eyes. "It's just that… I felt I was making real progress at first, and then the Red Year happened and I… I've been neglecting to act for too long. I'll convene the Elder Council on Morndas, and we'll develop an effective course of action to thwart the growth of the Thalmor. You have my word"

"Thank you, Potentate. You're making the right choice", was the simple reply before Lathenil rose, and began to exit the room.

"If this ship is sinking, I should at least get a bucket"


End file.
